Puponga, New Zealand — EXCEPT for a couple of bull seals sunning themselves on the silvery sand, my family had New Zealand's mile-long Wharariki Beach to ourselves.
The unclouded sky paled at the horizon over dark blue water lined with cresting rollers. Retreating waves molded the sand into a wet mirror that reflected the sky, the seals, the Archway Islands offshore, me and my three grown children on horseback.
The kids took off ahead of me, whooping and hollering as their horses pounded through the surf. I held back my steed, Sultan, to drink in the scene, delaying gratification for one more exquisite moment. Then I let him go. Hoofs drumming on the sand, wind whipping my face, we raced to catch up with the others.
The thrill lasted all of 30 seconds. That's when the rocks at the end of the beach loomed large, and I started worrying how to halt that headlong rush. Funny, my long-cherished dream of galloping across a tropical beach never included hauling at the reins and screaming, "Whoa!"
The ride was one of the first activities I booked online when my husband, Bill, and I decided to take our son Owen, 23, and daughter, Amanda, 17, to New Zealand in December, at the start of the Southern Hemisphere's summer. Our excuse for traveling around the globe from our home in Maine was to pick up Justin, our 21-year-old son, after his semester abroad in Christchurch. Midway through our adventure-packed, two-week trip, we planned to relax on the beaches at the northern tip of the South Island.
So we set off for Abel Tasman National Park, apparently just like thousands of other tourists. Abel Tasman is the smallest national park in New Zealand -- only 87 square miles -- yet it attracts the most visitors -- about 200,000 annually.
After swimming with the seals of Tonga Island, we lunched on Onetahuti Beach, one of a string of sandy crescents arcing up the jungled coastline. It was filled with hikers tramping Abel Tasman Coast Track, one of the nine Great Walks that lead through some of the country's best scenery; swimmers stripping off snorkels, masks and fins; and kayakers stretched out in the sun next to their slender plastic boats. A succession of seagoing taxis dropped off fresh adventurers and picked up tired campers along with their gear, hauling the kayaks onto the stern of the taxis.
We were glad to leave the rush hour behind as we headed up the only road that leads to Golden Bay. For 16 miles, it zigs and zags 365 times up and down the 2,600-foot-high summit of Takaka Hill.
